


just say the word and i'll part the sea

by TheSushiMonster



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fix It, Theon's alive, Yara likes Women, a Queen and her Bodyguard, the yara/sansa is flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2020-03-13 10:13:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18938872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSushiMonster/pseuds/TheSushiMonster
Summary: Theon feels his chest tighten. “What is dead may never die."“But rises again harder and stronger.” Yara steps closer, clasping his shoulder. “You survived the battle at Winterfell. You didn’t die - it’s time to rise again, Theon.”With some encouragement from Yara, Theon joins Sansa's Queensguard.





	just say the word and i'll part the sea

 

 

 _one_.

Yara sighs deeply before throwing an arm over the back of Sansa’s chair. “When the fuck are we going to start?”

“Soon.” Sansa glances sideways, smiling slightly. “Patience is not a strong suit of the Ironborn, I see.” Yara rolls her eyes, but her hand twirls around a lock of Sansa’s hair. Sansa says nothing about it.

Theon, standing behind them, tightens his jaw. This is not the first time since they arrived - him and Sansa, after convincing her that he was healthy enough to leave Winterfell - that Yara has touched Sansa and Sansa has said nothing of it. Not to mention the _comments_ …

“Now I understand why my baby brother was so eager to return to Winterfell.”

“Your smile is even more impressive than your hair in this sunlight.”

And his _favorite_ :

“You should visit the Isles soon, my Lady. There is much to do, to see. I could show you.”

“Is that so?”

“Oh yes. I always show a lady such as yourself a good time.”

Theon almost shoves her across the pit for that one.

The sun is bright and while winter has not quite ended - especially up North - the heat suffocates him and that is why Theon sweats under his armor. Shuffling slightly to the left, he hides from the sun as they wait.

And wait.

And _wait_.

“Will you sit the fuck down?” Yara turns to glare at him from her seat. Others glance at them, but ignore him for the most part. “Either sit down or leave.”

“I’m not leaving.” Theon stands straighter, doing his best not to fidget in the heat. “And I am not a Lord, so I don’t - ”

“Theon.” His eyes snap to Sansa, iron to magnet. “You are one of the last Highborns in Westeros.”

“My family is already represented.” Theon isn’t quite sure why he’s being so stubborn, fighting so hard. It might be the heat or the fact that Yara has red hair wrapped around her fingers.

Sansa’s eyes narrow. “My family can have four representatives.” With a sharp smile, one that grows fire in his belly, Sansa nods at Brienne, who quickly arrives with an extra chair. “Sit _down_ , Theon.”

Theon sits.

(And if Yara and Sansa are now separated, with him between them, and both sitting straighter and more serious as the trial begins… well Theon doesn’t complain.)

 

 

“So that is Lady Sansa Stark.” Yara smirks as her crew begin preparing her ship. “Or - apologies - _Queen_ Sansa Stark.”

Theon spares her a glance but continues working on untying the ropes. He knows exactly what she is doing - trying to inch her way into his skin, read the words written on his heart, trick him into reveal a piece of himself. And while he loves his sister, trusts her with his life and his secrets, this is one he wants to keep to himself.

“Your silence speaks volumes.” Theon continues to work around the crew, loading boxes and checking on men, but Yara follows him. “Pity we cannot stop at Winterfell.” Before he can control himself, he sends her a sharp look. Yara smirks. “Now that I’ve gotten a hint of the beauty there, I almost wish - ”

“Yara.” Theon faces her; while it’s still a struggle to hold her gaze sometimes, he tries his best. “Stop.”

A flash of triumph flickers in her eyes, but it’s quickly replaced by fake indifference. “I’ll stop when you fucking admit you want to fuck her.” Theon winces, despite himself, because he knows the truth, he’s always known the truth. But Yara quickly shakes her head. “You know as well as I do that you don’t need a cock to fuck, brother.”

Groaning, Theon turns back to his task. “I do not want to talk about fucking with my sister.”

“You’d rather talk about fucking with Lady Sansa, yes I know.” When Theon ignores her, she groans in frustration. “I do not understand why you continue to pretend you wish to be here and not with _her_.”

“I don’t - ”

“Theon,” she says, eyes hard and voice level, “you wear her brooch under your armor.” Theon flinches, unsure how she _knows_ , but knowing the truth glows on his face. “You are my family, little brother, but she is yours.”

Theon feels his chest tighten. “What is dead may never die.”

“But rises again harder and stronger.” Yara steps closer, clasping his shoulder. “You survived the battle at Winterfell. You _didn’t_ die - it’s time to rise again, Theon.”

Theon swallows - there’s heat building in his chest, in his throat. He loves Yara. _He loves his sister_.

“Thank you.”

Yara shoves him. “Now get the fuck off my ship.”

 

 

When he finds the party traveling to Winterfell, Theon is surprised to only find one recognizable face.

“My Lady!” Sansa spins, her skirts twirling at her ankles, and her face breaks out into a smile. Theon slows his feet even as his heart beat faster. “I’m sorry,” he pants, trying to catch his breath.

“Why are you apologizing?” Sansa smiles, softly, the corner of her lips quirked upwards. Her hands are clasped in front of her, but her thumb shakes, as if she wants to grab something. “We couldn’t leave without the Commander of my Queensguard.”

“Commander of your - ” Theon stiffens, his chest threatening to crack wide-open. The fire builds within him, threatening to burn him whole. “Where is Brienne? Arya?”

“I asked her to stay in King’s Landing.” Sansa smiles with ease and silk. “To watch over Bran.” Her hands twist in her skirts. “And Arya has decided to set sail. West.”

“But your - your _Grace_ \- ”

“Not yet,” says Sansa, her smiling growing even more as she steps closer. Her voice lowers, just slightly, so the soldiers they had traveled with cannot hear. “You will be the first to bestow that honor on me, Theon Greyjoy, but not yet.”

And without allowing him to answer, Sansa hugs him. And this time, Theon doesn’t hesitate to sink into the embrace, into her. The fire engulfs him, maybe her too; but he’ll rise again. Harder and stronger.

When they separate, Sansa beams. “I will take that as acceptance of your new position.”

Theon lets the smile she evokes be the answer.

 

 

 

_two._

Moments before her coronation, Sansa calls for Theon.

It does not take long - ever since they returned to Winterfell, he has been by her side or moments away. Sansa finds it selfishly comforting that he is always so close, so easy to find. When he knocks on her door, she sends away her servants and allows him to enter.

Theon stills at the doorway.

Sansa remembers _before_ \- before she left for King’s Landing, the first time, with all the heartbreak and bloodshed that followed. She also remembers _after_ \- when she waited for news of the battle in the South, as she began the process to heal Winterfell, the North, the living. And throughout that _after_ , Theon is there, protective and supportive and _there_.

But never in her lifetime can she remember being looked at like _this._

His eyes are a storm - of wind and water, of snow and sea. They flicker from the hem of her dress back to her face, a cool mist of affection and appreciation. Although nervous and apprehensive, somehow Theon’s gaze on her is calming.

And then Theon unsheathes his sword and kneels.

“My Queen.” When she opens her mouth to interrupt, Theon shakes his head. “Please - let me - ” His eyes turn to the floor when he speaks and Sansa wishes he would look at her instead. “When Robb was first named King of the North, I bent the knee to him. I pledged my life and loyalty to him, to your family.” Now he looks up, at her eyes, eyes serious and dark and she is unable to look away, even if she wanted to. “But I betrayed him. I betrayed you. And now I have the opportunity to serve you, to _protect_ you. Sansa - your Grace - I am yours, for as long as you’ll have me.”

Sansa closes her eyes to stop the tears from falling. Instead, they stay lodged in her chest, near the heart that threatens to run away from her and lodge beside his. When she opens her eyes again, Theon remains on his knees in front of her. His chest shows both his kraken embroidery and her wolf brooch tangled together. Trying her best to keep her voice level, Sansa breathes deeply.

“Theon Greyjoy, Prince of the Iron Islands and Lord Commander of the Queensguard. I, Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell and Queen of the North do so declare you free of all debts owed to House Stark.” Theon freezes. “If you are to remain in Winterfell, to serve and protect, it is out of loyalty and love, not obligation.”

Theon says nothing.

Sansa sinks down to her own knees. A momentary worry for her dress flickers through her mind, but it disappears when she holds his hands in hers. “In moments, I am going to be crowned Queen of the North. It is everything Robb wanted. But more importantly, it is what _I_ want.” There are ghosts of fingers between hers, but his blood and bones are real and she squeezes them. “I want you here, with me. My sister and my brothers are gone. You are my family. But I understand I may not be yours.” Her heart stutters. “If you need to leave, I will not stop you.”

“You are my family,” he says, voice strong, although his body shakes. “Your Grace.”

“When we are alone,” she says, smiling, ignoring the urge to bring him closer, “you must call me Sansa.” She stands and straightens her dress, the textured detailing gliding across her skin.

Theon mirrors her before clearing his throat. “My Queen - ”

“Sansa.”

“ _Sansa_ ,” he says, between a smile and a groan, and the urge to touch him grows stronger once more. “It is time.”

This time, when they walk down an aisle - inside, during the day, when she’s dressed in gray and black and him in silver and gold - Theon shadows her and her head is held high. And although they do not touch, Sansa would not mind it this time; and when Sansa gazes upon her people, a crown of wolves on her head, her eyes cannot stray from his, even as she sinks into her seat.

Theon is the first to raises his sword.

_The Queen in the North! The Queen in the North! The Queen in the North!_

Sansa does not look away from him when she smiles.

 

 

It is not until many weeks, months later that Sansa understands what _that look_ means.

Theon is her shadow; when he tries to remain invisible, Sansa brings the light to him, calling upon his advice and guidance. In theory, Sansa understands that is not his responsibility as Lord Commander, but with Winterfell still rebuilding, his familiarity of the North is necessary.

More importantly, Sansa trusts him the most.

Every morning, he greets her with a hidden smile and a bow. He walks with her down the haunted hallways; slowly, over time, the ghosts fade and the whispers quiet. She meets with her advisors - of which she considers Theon one - and settles disputes. Being Queen is not easy, not a leisurely task, but Sansa does it and if Theon is to be believed, she does it well.

In the afternoons, they walk through the Godswoods together. At first, Sansa sees only Theon’s bloodied body in the snow. But eventually the snow melts and grass grows and Theon is still there beside her, breathing.

And at night, before she retires, Theon wishes her good night. He stands guard at her door, and she is not sure for how long he stays before taking rest himself. But every night, before they part, Theon stares at her with the same look from her coronation. Some nights, the storm is quiet - steady rainfall on the wooden panes of the roof. Other times it’s bright and airy and reminds her of the happier times of her childhood, when happiness seemed within reach.

On this night, on the eve of her twentieth name day, Theon stares at her with lightning bottled in his eyes. Perhaps it’s the ale - he drinks little now, not as much as he used to, but she has drunk enough for the both of them - or the reflections of the stars in the night sky. But in that moment, Sansa believes him to be beautiful.

He appears, for the first time in a long time, to be _home_.

And that is when Sansa realizes: he’s in love with her.

And, impossibly, she loves him too.

 

 

The next day, before the celebrations in her honor, Sansa walks the battlements.

It is the one place Theon still doesn’t feel comfortable; she hesitates, waits, but Theon always nods and follows her anyway.

It is a heady feeling, having a man, _this_ man, face his fears for her.

Staring out past the walls, at the green land and puddles spreading from melted snow, Sansa revels in this moment. Winter has come, but now winter has gone: it is spring and the air smells of budding flowers and possibilities.

Theon stands beside her, breathing in deeply. “It has been a long winter.” He glances at her, a hint of a twinkle in his eye. “I can’t say I will miss it.”

Sansa grins.

Theon turns back to study the land: small flowers have begun to bloom and the leaves of trees had begun to grow. Small crowds of people mill around the castle walls; children dodging between people and laughing while their parents shake their heads with affectionate smiles. Sansa can’t say that Winterfell is healed, but the medicine has taken and slowly she’ll regain her strength once more.

Glancing to her guard, Sansa admires him. His face is fuller, pinker. His beard is trimmed these days, while his hair is still unkempt. She likes to tease him about the curls that cover his face, but Theon just shakes his head. There are no more girls to impress, she knows, and if letting his hair grow gives Theon freedom, Sansa will not take that from him.

“A raven arrived from Dorne a few days ago.” While Theon continues to look past the walls, Sansa studies him. “The Prince would like to visit.”

At this, he turns to her, surprised. “For what occasion?”

“His name day is approaching and he wishes to make an alliance of marriage,” says Sansa, bluntly, because there is no need for subtly with Theon. They have already wasted so much time; she doesn’t wish to waste anymore. Stepping closer to him, eyes narrowed to catch every moment of his reaction, Sansa says, “What do you think of this proposal?”

Theon’s hand clenches where it grips the castle wall. His jaw is tight and his eyes are cloudy. But he only pauses a moment before speaking. “Aligning with Dorne could be very advantageous to help us restock the food supplies before the land is fertile.”

Sansa raises an eyebrow. “The Dornish are anxious for their own independence.”

“True,” he concedes, his eyes still guarded but his hand drops to his side. “Marriage to the Queen of the North may only feed that desire.” His eyes slightly narrow. “Has Yara spoken to you recently?”

“Not about her petition to the King, no.” Sansa does not want to discuss his sister now, anyway. Instead, she steps closer. “Do you think I should marry the Prince of Dorne?”

Theon’s carefully impassive face quickly falls into a frown. “Why do you care so much of my opinion, your Grace?”

Sansa wants to shake him. Maybe kiss him. “Because I trust you, Theon.”

“Do you _want_ to marry?” he finally asks, a rush, and she knows he remembers her last marriage.

And Sansa smiles. “No, I do not.” Maybe she means to, but Sansa stands much too close to him now, especially in the open. “I have married enough for one lifetime.” She shakes her head, eyes locked onto his. Maybe he can read her eyes as well as she can read his. “All I want now is to be loved.”

Sansa does not drop his gaze; it’s not until Theon swallows, his own gaze flickering to her lips before quickly catching hers again that Sansa lets herself grin. She steps back.

“Have you gotten me a present, Theon?”

The fire building in his eyes fades suddenly, humorously switching to panic. Sansa tries not to laugh. “No - no, my Grace…  I did not realize - ”

“You forgot my name day?” Sansa can’t help but tease him; he makes it so easy. “What kind of protector are you, if not to shower me in presents?” It’s an echo of their past, mixed with their present, and when Theon suddenly smirks, realization dawning, Sansa aches for the future.

“Your gift will have to wait, your Grace,” he says, the fur light on his back. “After the festivities.”

“What if I couldn’t wait that long?”

“Sometimes a Queen must practice patience.”

Sansa laughs and Theon hides his grin by turning away, but she bottles the moment anyway.

 

 

 

_three._

Time passes. Peace reigns, although there are skirmishes along borders as the people settle in the new normal. News from the capital discuss the citizens’ of Highgarden displeasure at the their new ruler and Dorne’s itch for their own independence. But Winterfell, and the North, remain relatively calm.

New rulers are found for the abandoned castles - Theon only flinches once when the Dreadfort is mentioned - and the land is fertile once more.

And the marriage proposals for the Queen continue to arrive.

If it were not for his position at Sansa’s side, Theon may not have even noticed. With each letter, Sansa gives barely a cursory read before having a negative reply sent in return. He wonders, briefly, if she considers any of them; but he respects her, her decision and desire to remain unattached. Instead, Theon stands and waits and supports.

In public, Sansa is a fair ruler. She is firm, yet kind, strict yet gentle. But in private, she is all human, sharing with Theon her wishes and dreams and fears. She confesses her goal to rebuild relations with the various factions of the North. She tells him about the ghosts that still haunt her between the brick walls of the castle. She shares her desire to celebrate a wedding without fear of assassination hovering at her back.

Theon listens and offers suggestions and shares this own thoughts.

It’s in these private moments when Sansa holds his hand or plays with his hair or curls up beside him that it’s hard to resist the temptation to kiss her, hold her. He knows they already attract gossip: Theon follows her and Sansa smiles at him and whispers echo in these hallways. But when Theon brings it up, Sansa waves him off.

“It’s nothing to be concerned with,” she would say. “Their form of entertainment is not hurting me.”

“Words may be more harmful than weapons, your Grace.”

Sansa would stare at him with shining eyes and Theon would feel his heart trip in his chest. “Is it hurting you?” she would ask. “To be the source of rumors?”

Theon would shake his head. “They have stopped calling me Turncoat,” he would say, trying his best not to blush. “Instead…”

“Hero of the Godswood.” Sansa’s grin would burn him. “A much more fitting name.”

 

 

And it’s in the stolen moments, between meetings and duties and walks around the castle and the city, where Sansa leans into him and whispers into his ear: “remember when we would play princess and knight? This feels like that.” Her hand would linger on his arm, soft and gentle, and although recalling memories is no longer painful, Theon warms instead because her touch is flint.

Sometimes, in the middle of the hall between granting audience to citizens, Sansa leans back in her chair to stare at him.

“Yes, your Grace?”

“Will you come closer, Theon?”

And he does, of course, not only because she _asks_ him rather than tells him, but because he wants to. He always wants to be closer to her. When he stands right beside her, Sansa stands too and faces him. There is no one else in the hall, not yet, but there could be at any moment; but for that time, it is just him and her.

Sansa pushes back the curls that have fallen onto his forehead. Her hand lingers against his face - against his cheek, her thumb drawing spirals against his skin. His scars are rough and ugly, but she studies him as if he’s....

As if he’s worthy.

Theon closes his eyes for that brief moment, sinking into her touch, absorbing every moment of intimacy he can.

That evening they receive a raven: from the Iron Islands, from Yara, requesting support for a petition to the King for independence. Before bed, Sansa pens a long letter with guidance, Theon at her side offering input.

As Sansa watches the raven disappear into the night, Theon leans against the wall beside the window. Somewhere in between _Bran is reasonable_  and _broken promises will not help your cause, so reaving on the shores is not the proper way to build alliances_ , Theon realizes what he needs to do.

“I have to go,” he says, watching her watch the sky. “Yara - is a great warrior and pirate, an even better leader. But - ” his head rests against the cold walls, his arms crossed across his chest, “I know the North. I know Bran. I can help her.”

Sansa smiles. “You will always be a Greyjoy.” Finally, she looks at him. “Promise me you’ll return home?”

 _Home_.

Home is not a place; it never was. While it is still hard to accept some days, Theon knows this now: he is a Greyjoy and a Stark, prince of the Iron Islands and Lord Commander of the Queensguard in Winterfell. But his _home_ , the place he can rest easy and close his eyes, be comfortable and be at peace...

And suddenly Theon realizes that these moments - of intimacy and affection and trust - are more common with Sansa than he previously believed.

 

 

Many moons later, Theon returns. Her people know her well - the moment they see his flag waving in the wind, just as the horn sounds, Sansa is told they’re at the gates.

The moment he dismounts his horse, Sansa grabs him and embraces him.

Laughing, Theon hugs her tightly for a brief moment, lips by her ears. “I promised I would return, Lady Sansa.”

Sansa releases him, despite the hunger in her heart, and nods. “You did. Thank you.”

The rest of the day, Theon tells her about his trip; about Yara and her successful bid for independence. How Bran is well, and Brienne happy, and King’s Landing still on the path to healing. Sansa informs him about the news from Winterfell and the North.

Sansa had _missed_ him.

And as they exchange stories and lessons, as they dine together and laugh together, Sansa remains by his side. Because she realizes that day that they are more than Queen and Guard; he is her partner, in duty and in love.

She can only hope he recognizes this too.

 

 

That night, Theon retakes his spot at her door again, his silent vigil neverending and always comforting. Before retiring, Sansa pauses.

“I missed you, you know,” she says, staring at her hand on the knob of the door. Not at Theon, at his deep eyes and gentle face. If she stares at him, instead, she may not be able to stop herself from pulling him into her room and never letting go.

Theon breathes out, loudly, and she _missed_ him. He smells like salt and iron, but more importantly, like comfort and safety and _home_. “I missed you too,” he finally says, softly and it’s the way his voice breaks - on the _too_ , as if her missing him is a surprise, not an inevitability - that causes her to look at him.

And the wall in her chest crumbles.

“Theon - ” Her hand is on his face again, because she can’t stop touching him. Maybe to prove to herself he’s real, maybe to feel his scruff and scars and tears. “Will you come inside?”

A question, never a demand. Sansa couldn’t order him even if she wanted to - he deserves more.

Theon follows her into the room, softly shutting the door behind them. “Is something wrong, your Grace?” His voice is still gentle, low, as if he knows this question is just a bid for time.

“What have I told you about calling me that when we’re alone?”

The smile rises slowly to his face. “I’m sorry, Lady Sansa. What’s wrong?”

“I need you.”

Face flickering between a smile and caution, Theon blinks rapidly. “What can I do?”

And Sansa understands the double meaning in his question: Theon, always there, always supporting her. He wants to help, wants to support her but doesn’t believe he can. Not in the way she wants.

But Sansa knows better.

“I’ve heard the stories,” she says, stepping closer to him. There are still two candles lit in her room, sending her shadows dancing on the walls. It reminds her of a time long ago, when desperation and panic overrode her empathy. A broken promise from a broken man. “That a man is not a man without a - “ She swallows the word, her eyes flickering down. Theon stiffens so she moves towards him. Not disgusted, not desperate, not ashamed. “A man is not a man because of what he does not have. A man is a man because of his heart and his soul.”

Theon breathes a little quicker, a bit more deeper. Pausing to give him a moment, Sansa carefully touches his shoulders. Instead of pushing her off, his own hands move to rest on her hips. “I want _your_ heart, Theon. Your soul.” Her forehead rests on his, his lips inches away. The ocean captures her, embracing her into their depths. “You already have mine.”

His eyes search her. A moment, a heartbeat -

Theon kisses her, gently, with only lips and heart. A tear falls - his or hers, Sansa isn’t certain, but it’s theirs, just like this kiss, which turns harder as her teeth graze his tongue and the grip of her hand tightens in his hair. Sansa guides them backwards, away from the door and into the room. When the backs of her knees collide with the bed, Theon pauses, his lips resting on her neck.

“This is what you want?” he asks, almost breathless. “You want me - and everything I cannot give?”

Sansa kisses his ear, his check, his shoulder. “I’ll take whatever you can give, Theon. Every piece of you is beautiful and I want it.”

A sob, dry and heavy, leaves him; Sansa captures it with her lips and tongue, tasting his passion and desire and craving. It matches her own.

His clothes fall to floor with her dress. Smallclothes thrown aside. Him and her, skin and air, naked.

“Theon,” she breathes, outlining the gravings of his skin. Would he be comfortable showing these to anyone else? Somehow, Sansa doubts it. To be trusted like this, with him and his body - Sansa feels more powerful and in control than she has ever felt with the crown on her head. “Thank you,” she whispers into the skin of his ribs before he sinks to the floor in front of her.

While he is quiet, reverent and dedicated, a twinkle sparks in his eyes. His thumbs softly circle on her thighs. “Don’t thank me quite yet, my Lady.” A bit of pressure on her legs - and then Sansa spreads herself, so Theon can see all of her. His gaze sharpens, a fire floating in a lake, and his tongue wets his lips. “You are so beautiful, Sansa.”

Her name on his lips: Sansa moans. His hands move higher, slowly, and his kisses follow.

His eyes lock with hers. “Tell me to stop, okay? Tell me what is good and what is not, and I will stop immediately.” A gentle kiss where her leg meets the rest of her. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Sansa curls her hand in his hair. “I trust you.” And Theon smiles, wide and wild and _joyous_ , before kissing her center.

Sansa does not tell Theon to stop - rather, she says _yes_ and _please_ and _never stop_. His name, when it falls from her lips, feel like a command rather than a question and Theon is happy to listen.

The peak - a culmination of the pressure in her stomach and the ache in her heart - bursting through her blood and spreading into every inch of her leaves her shaking. Theon crawls back up her body, kissing her stomach and her chest and her neck and her lips. He kisses her and kisses her, wherever he can reach. Sansa wants to share _more_ with him, give the pleasure singing through her veins to him too. But Theon just keeps kisses her, holding her, gazing at her with both understanding and a plea.

So Sansa sinks into him, legs tangled together, and kisses him until they fall asleep in each other’s arms.

 

 

_Death is nothingness._

_So when Theon feels his heavy limbs and throbbing pain in his bones, a dry coating of wool stuck in his throat, he realizes he is not dead._

_His fingers twitch._

_“Theon?”_

_Her voice is a light, a beacon; he grabs the rope and climbs, until his fingers are numb and calloused. He is so tired._

_“Theon?” Sansa is_ right there _, when she wasn’t before, and Theon needs to feel her. His fingers twitch, but he can’t quite lift them. But then another hand intertwines his. “You’re okay, you’re safe.”_

 _For once, he_ does _feel okay. He does feel safe._

_A moment of strength: his foot moves to the side and his hand squeezes hers. “L - Lady - ” His voice cracks, rough and dry. A cup rests on his chin and he swallows water as it falls through his lips. Slowly, softly, he opens his eyes._

_And there’s Sansa, bright red hair and vivid blue eyes, waiting._

_She looks tired and disheveled, as if she’s been there a while, but there’s no mistaking her beauty. She’s beautiful and here and alive and_ he’s _alive and -_

_Theon sits up suddenly. “Bran! The Night King - there was no one else and - ”_

_Sansa lifts their hands and shakes her head. “It’s okay, it’s fine. Bran is fine. Arya - ” A grin, a moment of pride and Theon’s chest aches, “Arya stabbed the Night King. She saved us all.”_

_Relief pours out of Theon’s sigh. “Of course she did.”_

_“And you,” says Sansa, still holding their hands together, now close to her chest. “You - you scared me, Theon Greyjoy.” Her fingers shake, fidget against his own, but they do not let go. “You almost died.”_

_“But I didn’t.”_

_Sansa’s glare is quick and pointed but they both smile. “And I almost didn’t get to give you this.”_

_One hand still holding his, the other slips into her cloak. She pulls out a brooch, a pin. The silver wolf shines in the candlelight and Theon swallows._

_“Theon Greyjoy,” says Sansa Stark, holding his hand after waiting for him to live after almost dying, “you are a Greyjoy, ironblood and seaborn. But you are also a Stark - raised in the North, with the heart of a wolf. A sea wolf.” Her face colors, pink tinges to offset the strands of hair falling across her face. “Will you accept this token of your family?”_

_Family_.

_Theon can barely think, let alone speak. So he nods instead, his free hand wrapping around hers that holds the wolf pin. Both of his hands in hers; joined together in home and heart. Her eyes remain patient, open and vulnerable. Theon is honored._

_Sansa scoots closer to him on the bed, taking the brooch to pin to his chest, right next to the kraken emblem on his blouse._

_“Perfect,” she says, smiling at his chest._

_“Indeed,” he says, watching her smile._

 

 

Queen Sansa Stark enters the hall, dressed in gray and red, her crown stashed away safely. Lord Commander of the Queensguard Theon Greyjoy follows, like he always does.

When Sansa laughs, he smiles quietly, a quick curve of his lips.

When Theon steps in front of her in defense, Sansa lightly presses a comforting hand on his arm, a gently squeeze.

And when they think no one is looking - but of course, in Winterfell, _everyone_ is looking - they share a secret smile, a flash of a wink, the swipe of a tongue across dried lips. Sansa touches him and Theon tries very hard not to grin like a fool.

And at night, Theon guards the Queen’s door. And at night, Sansa invites her guard inside. And at night, they make love and hold each other and share secrets of dreams and nightmares alike.

Queen Sansa Stark never marries, but Lord Commander Theon Greyjoy never leaves her side either.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was a combination of a few prompts/ideas: a) Yara flirting with Sansa to make Theon jealous, b) Theon joining Sansa's Queensguard, and c) Sansa never marrying, but loving Theon "unofficially" and probably appointing an orphan as her heir apparent.
> 
> Hopefully it didn't feel like three separate fics shoved into one!
> 
>  
> 
> @leopoldfitz on tumblr and @ripsaras on twitter


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